Vagabond Melody, Healer of Broken Souls
by Ashlen the Moonstruck Aquarius
Summary: (Genderbent BwL fic) After a near-fatal beating, Heather Jaclyn Potter runs from her relatives with the help of an unexpected ally. Armed with nothing but the clothing on her back, a small knife, a megere pouch of change and Melody at her back, she fades into anonymity. What happens when one wizard's curiosity kills the metaphorical cat? How will Heather react? One can guess. HP/DM
1. Into: World in Disarray and A Mystery

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the HP franchise, only this plot line and my female incarnation of our boy-who-lived...plz enjoy and do comment if you will... it will feed my desire to write more if you do -.o ~

* * *

Prologue: The Silent Violinist of King's Cross, Invoker of the Heart's Emotion.

-An eerie and tense calm loomed over the British wizarding community. Despite the guilded mask the ministry and any involved in said institute wore, no witch, wizard, or perceptive untrained young mage could ignore the tension lying heavy in the air like a post-rain fog.  
"You can cut the tension with a cutting curse" murmured a man undeniably whose handsome aristocratic features were set into forced stoicism. He was tall and pale in every way; long pale platinum blond fell just past his shoulders, skin an English noble's porcelain, and clad in black work robes that served to highlight his pale features. The man turned stormy eyes to the enchanted paper in hand, it bore disconcerting news. In bold black it read:

 ** _The Girl-Who-Lived, Confirmed to be Missing_**  
By: Rita Skeeter

 _Today, Minister Cornelius Fudge answers the question we, of the magic community, have been asking ourselves for nearly a year and a half. With great reluctance and sorrow, he concedes: "She is nowhere to be found in any location known to us. Her lacking presence at her relatives' home serves to confirm the widespread rumor branched from an anonymous source." he states his next words in grim finality, "The Girl-Who-Lived is missing."_  
 _This Reporter prodded the Minister of Magic about the current course of action to this tragic news to no avail, implying a certain passivity._

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy knows well rumor spreads like a wildfire in their close-knit community. This, he long decided, was a hit to the morale of the whole. Going by the suffocating atmosphere, he is not wrong in assuming so, therefore not making an arse of himself (As much as he'd protest this fact, he does it quite a lot).  
Heather Jaclyn Potter is a mystery to wizarding Britain, save her name, birthdate and the like. No one truly knows what she looks like; some say she has her mother's ruby hair and some her father's unruly raven, some say she is a young upcoming beauty, others whom he suspected to be jealously vain contended the child was a homely thing at best.

Infact, Daedalus Diggle claims to not only have seen the girl, but shook her hand if that is to be believed. "She is quite cute, ordinary looking, but no less exciting to meet, I say," his words were only fuel to the fire of speculation, "she may grow into herself quite rightly, she is only a fledgling, yet folks."

Lucius pitties the young one for he, like countless others, know nothing of her beyond ministry records (he is not yet desperate enough to turn to muggle papers). She would not lead an easy life if found, that much is sure.

He folded The Daily Prophet, neatly folding it and stashing it away in a pocket of his expensive fur-lined trench coat, then stood noting the sky's appearance. Nearly 7:30 PM. About time for the train from France should be arriving soon, with his wife and son on board.

* * *

He stood at the platform, waiting for the steam engine to arrive. Then, the sound of someone (or something) bowing the strings of a violin echo off the walls and ceiling of the mostly desolate station, sparsely populated by a few stragglers such as himself and the violinist.

Another recent development. In both muggle and magical papers, about a year and a half prior, something of an urban legend was born of rumor. Eye-witness accounts spoke of a young street musician with a violin that could evoke emotion from even the most stoic and hard-hearted of men.

She is dubbed Melody, the mysterious musician of King's Cross.

Lucius vaguely wondered if this anonymous Melody and the disappearance of the Potter girl are in anyway related...

Reports say she (the only thing anyone is sure of) is a young girl, most notable for her unnaturally bright and soulful eyes of emerald green. Infact, one magical eye-witness compared the color to that of the light produced by killing curse, he or she having been unlucky enough to witness said curse in action).  
Even less is known of the publically named Melody. Her relative age, gender and eye color is all that is given. Some say the girl had short sheared raven hair, that shined red in and at the right light and angle.

The haunting song washed over the regal looking man, halting any and all thought process. The overwhelming feeling of heart-wrenching loneliness caused his chest to ache with longing, bringing unbidden tears to his eyes. Yet, the undertone of bittersweet freedom, laced throughout with silent inner strength allowed him to dam all but one tear from making its journey down his face.

The last note danced eerily in the still air, singing of tremulous hope for the future, then faded into nonexistence. He was left with a lingering heaviness in his chest.  
Lucius never thought he could miss his small family so much. Then the whistle of an incoming train broke the silence, anticipation rising in him.  
The lingering weight, near completely evanesced as he hugged his wife and child close to his side, both of which were pleasantly surprised at the newfound affection the senior Malfoy showed them.

Lucius has had for years what the lonely violinist has not...a family.

The Malfoy patriarch lead his family to a brick support pillar where a small hooded figure in red, black, and white crouched over an instrument case filled with freely given tokens of praise from her audience. From the amount, she had drawn quite a crowd today. At the moment, he observed, she was amassing the coins and paper bills and putting it all the large black messenger bag across her body.


	2. Pain of the Past (part 1)

Disclaimer: I do not own HP or Lindsey Stirling's "Song of the Caged Bird". Again comment if like…constructive criticism welcome ;)

(but...holy shitaki mushrooms...10,711 words in this chapter alone...so many sleepless nights staying up typing this...0.0 All I ask is you enjoy and comment. Phew )

 ** _Warning(s): Mentions of past child abuse and domestic violence, blood, implications of near death, trigger warning! If you have suffered abuse (like my mom did; she even helped me write a lot of this based loosely on her experiences), crude language and possible sexual innuendo (nothing explicit…I don't do rape scenes, I just can't) and mention of nudity...lol_**

"Vocal speaking" (everyone sans Heather)

" _Thoughts_ " (mainly Heather)

(A/N- Song Featured: Song of the Caged Bird by Lindsey Stirling.)

 **Chapter 1- Pain of the Past (pt.1)**

The clock presiding proudly over King's Cross Station struck midday. At this time, a young girl noted, many people are out and about. A lot of people equal a large crowd; a large crowd equals a lot of money, which promises dinner tonight…maybe some new clothing. Well, _newer_ than what she has at present.

She wore her oversized but warm knitted maroon sweatshirt that fell past her fingertips, which was in miraculously perfect condition and in no need of replacing (despite the numerous times she had tripped and fallen, it had never once sustained any damage…no, only her pride). Not that she would, she argued, it was an unbidden but welcome gift from a rather plump, but kind red headed woman who spied her shivering form one winter day. Under it, a black hoodie with a broken zipper that her cousin gave her long ago, under the guise it was "too plain" and he didn't like it (the elder Dursley's didn't even think twice, and promised a new one by the end of the day), the mid-thigh length black monotone black and white plaid skirt was frayed and torn in some places at the edges, her black knee high cotton socks resembled swiss cheese with the numerous holes dotting the fabric (she a made mental note to replace the skirt and socks), and a lightly worn pair black and white of converse that comfortable hugged her feet, having been brand new and unworn when she got them.

She made sure she forgot no article of clothing (unlike last time…she forgot her boxers at the Laundromat and walked around like a Scotsman the whole day with no one the wiser), she went to the restroom to tidy up as much as possible for the day's performance.

Sure enough, there she was observing the appearance of the girl staring back at her.

The girl had a choppy, perpetually unkempt rat's nest she called hair, it was mid-neck in length and black as a raven's wing, as well as in need of a proper washing (and brushing, as if that made a difference). Her face, washed of sleep and grime for the most part, was pale and soft looking with baby fat, with perfect pink lips chapped from the cool London air, and half-blind but piercing vivid green eyes that gave nothing away.

She ran petite, callused fingers though the greasy mop of hair in a fruitless attempt to order the rebellious strands into some semblance of neatness.

As her raven bangs shifted, her enigmatically keen eyes caught sight of the abnormal lightning shaped scar sitting innocuously above her left brow.

Heather Potter eyed the mark dubiously. So many questions about her past arose to the forefront at the sight, yet eluding capture at every turn (She chose to ignore the tripe her relatives spouted).

Heather fixed her appearance as if it mattered, and smirked sardonically at the pitiful image she made; her expression morphed into a tragic travesty of cockiness, for the sheer irony that she had _nothing_ to be cocky _for_ made the situation at hand that much more ironic.

Heather Jaclyn Potter, aka Anonymous Melody, left her large dressing room commonly known as the public restroom. The girl pointedly ignored the obscurely long line extending out of the men's loo, choosing not to ponder the fact that the women's designated loo remained lineless (only at King's Cross did the small girl ever come across such a backwards phenomenon)

With her dearest Melody at her back and face adorned with a bittersweet smile, Heather walked through the doors leading to the busy streets of London as ready as she will be to take what life will throw at her today...

* * *

The sun shined brightly at the zenith of its daily journey, under which a small crowd steadily gathered around the publically known Anonymous Melody of King's Cross as she prepares for her midday serenade.

The crowd waited with growing anticipation, their quiet chatter buzzing in the air.

Amidst the masses of muggles and magical people alike, a very similar looking pale featured figure stood at the front of the gathered masses, watching the young violinist's back as she tuned her violin, making small adjustments every now and then. Then she stood, eyes on the brick support in front of her, and taking a preparatory breath. Finally, after minutes of composing herself mentally, she turned to the eager crowd (that only grew in those anticlimactic moments) entrapping her on all sides as far as she could see (which was not far…).

As she raised her bow to Melody's vocal chords, a hush reminiscent of a silencing charm fell over the surrounding masses.

As the first note sang out, Heather fell into a trance like state. Memories unbidden played across her eyes. She remained unaware of each emotion echoing vividly in the hearts and minds that heard her song, uncannily manipulating their emotions to match her own; and _they_ unaware of the fact she practically vacated her body, her mind lost in the chaotic din of memories…

* * *

\- ( **Memories: Song of the Caged Bird** ) -

She was turning 5 today, she sighed longingly, and as usual was sans a gift.

Girl's blurry gaze tried and inevitably failed to focus on a small indeterminate dot in the corner that she was sure to have been a benign house spider.

It was 8:30 am and another day of primary school.

She completed her usual morning ritual; breakfast was cooked and any facial bruising was covered by her long raven hair (because expensive concealer was too good for the likes of her). Despite Aunt Petunia's many warning about not hitting her in the face, ("it's too conspicuous and someone might take notice" she reprimands him), Uncle Vernon still threatens her not to tell lest she wish for a beating that would make her wish she had never been born.

Truth be told, Freak already wishes herself dead, no beating was needed. But she wouldn't tell anyways because, quite frankly, she doesn't want her bruises to have bruises.

Her Aunt harshly rapped on the boundary to her little haven (though not much its better than having nothing, right?), "Were leaving out in 5 minutes, don't forget anything!" her screeching voice, comparable to nails on a chalkboard, was barely muffled by the flimsy vented gate.

Heather (as happy as she was to that discover she a name like Dudley, she still had to get used to using it) had been perched on her cot, dressed in her donated uniform that hung off her bony underdeveloped frame. Frea-…no, Heather found herself quietly thanking the former student who had the foresight and kindness to do so. At that inspiring thought, she left out the front door of her personal hell for the better part of three and three quarters* (given the fact she was about one and a half at the time) of her life to the failed juvenile correctional facility disguised cleverly as an institute of learning.

Yep, just another day like any other because freaks don't have birthdays.

* * *

\- ( **Silence born in the dead of night** ) -

The silence reigning over the night was broken by the sharp sound of an open palm hitting bare skin, the sound originating from within the walls of number 4 Private Drive.

Neighbors of the Dursley's, save two, have all but severed any form of communication and relations with number four's residents, the exception being their small abused niece. None dared to file a lawsuit against them after that one time someone _did_ ; the accuser lost the case due to insufficient evidence. The small child's agonized screams had never been heard louder or more prolonged until that night; many still had nightmares about the aftermath of that event. If they stood by and did nothing, she was hurt. If they tried to help her, she was hurt worse; A lose-lose situation.

She wasn't seen for a week after that.

It's happening again, and no one can do a single thing to stop it.

Heather fell to the floor of Dudley's second bedroom with a solid thump. She cried out as her head came into contact with the drywall, her glasses flying somewhere behind the towering figure casting a shadow over her in the moonlit night, lying in a dazed stupor at their feet.

-Instinctively, she curled into a ball in attempt to protect her throbbing head and cheek. She was facing the abused wall, although she'd succinctly point out that her head had been more aggrieved, but it's kind of hard to do when one's back is being viciously lambasted. Pained cries and pleas for mercy were forced from her fading vocal chords, worn and scratchy from extended periods of abuse.

-"Shut your lying mouth, Girl! You deserve this you freak of nature!" the man, whose face was an unattractive purple from rage, growled harshly and emphasizing every word with a solid kick to her body, made frail from malnourishment, "Your wiseacre mouth landed you here! Shut up! Shut up! Your voice annoys me!"

She bit her tongue to stifle her steadily weakening cries; she could feel her feeble body giving out. This continued as Uncle Vernon ranted on about how she, a freak, made his boy look dumber than a rock (truly he was, with grades that would barely pass him to the next year) and how it had been her to cheat off of Dudley, not the other way around. The idiot girl, in his mind, cannot possibly get an A+ on a test without cheating off of his intelligent son. Not without using her freaky powers. She manipulated the teachers' mind. It's inconceivable! It's madness! It's scandalous!

 _"He's Deranged…"_ she mused weakly as her vision started tunneling, her body went blissfully numb, and her assailant's words became more indiscernible until…silent oblivion followed.

She awoke hours later to the rising sun, sprawled on her back as if someone had prodded and tried to rouse her from her comatose state.

Heather could only lie there inert, staring listlessly at the ceiling of the vacant room.

Her voice annoyed him? At this Heather decided " _I will not speak for any reason; not even when spoken to._ _From this day forward, I forsake my voice._ "

She dragged her flagging body out of the spare bedroom (knowing if her cousin found her in there he'd cause a bedlam and earn herself another beating, quite possibly her last) and down the stairs, painstakingly avoiding the creaky step, to her small haven under the stairs. She landed in an ungainly heap of hypersensitive nerves and protesting limbs.

"Nevermore…" the ravenette croaked hoarsely one final time, " _quoth the raven, nevermore…_ " She finished reciting in her head, imagining a phantom raven sitting over her cupboard door, crowing in response, "Nevermore…" and flew away.

Heather fell into a dreamless sleep…all this grief over a test score she had rightfully earned.

When she next awoke, she said nothing as she found herself lacking the will to do so, and held her head down demurely in what she knew was a vain effort to gain her objectionable relatives' indifference. Predictably, her hopes were crushed.

On a sad note, they hate her for reasons unfathomable to her shattered psyche.

Then, the youthful shine in her emerald eyes all but faded as a solitary tear slipped down her bruised cheek unhindered. Heather mourned the loss of her own innocence, tainted by the bigotry and hatred of those who were supposed to care.

A single phantasmal feather fell from somewhere unknown, disintegrating into a shower of irretrievable lights.

* * *

\- ( **A Syren's Call** ) -

Today, the raven haired girl could be found at the top most rung of a trio of horizontal bars, standing easily 15 feet off the ground, eating a small lunch of Vienna sausages and a Kool-Aid juice box. The bars themselves were comfortably situated in the shade of the towering English oaks that enclosed the area.

Her school mates, Heather learned early on, avoided the equipment like the plague. Few had a valid reason; the only one being acrophobia, the fear of heights.

Yet, Heather harbors no such fear; in fact she'd venture to say she loves them…if her current position is any indication, that is.

Many of her peers try to cajole her down, going as far as to calling her names, only to receive goading look that clearly read, "Come and get me." Needless to say, they walked away thoroughly cowed and unsatisfied with her response (or lack thereof in Heather's case).

With them gone, she enjoyed the September air as it caressed her cold-reddened face and playfully teased her wild ebony locks with wordless insinuations being so intimately exchanged in mere moments.

Her spectacled gaze caught sight of a raven with ebony plumage taking flight and disappearing into to the horizon. " _I wish I could fly away and never come back._ " Heather gazed longingly at the place the beautiful avian was last spotted, " _I wish I could escape, if only for an hour…_ "

The school bell rang, loudly announcing the end of recess, and the imminent start of the day's final lesson.

All children at Surrey's local primary school are required to take either an arts or computer based elective, much to the Dursley's dismay as this included Heather as well.

Predictably, Dudley chose something computer based and was greatly distressed to learn that video games were not an option, before grudgingly going with typing. He, in his truest fashion, threw a tizzy to get his way. This was met with mixed reaction; the school counselor was blatantly bemused and appalled by the lack of discipline, his parents were quietly beaming in pride ("He's a protesting prodigy!" the man whispered excitedly to his wife who nodded in agreement), and Heather was smugly amused at the embarrassing display. The very unmoved student counselor told him in no uncertain terms that she is here to help him not appease his puerile whims, and that if he didn't choose for himself, _she_ would choose _for_ him.

This shut him down, nonplussed that his go-to tactic failed him, and earned Heather's eternal respect simultaneously.

In fact, the memory made her laugh every time it came to mind.

Heather, after much consideration, decided on orchestral music. This incited loud protests from her relations; she breaks anything she touches, she is incapable of learning anything, she is prone to tantrums (the counselor raises a brow, pointedly looking at her despondent cousin), and she is incorrigible. Heather shook her head in amused disbelief.

It's funny, in the mind of the girl in question, all those things describe the unnaturally quiet boy in the seat adjacent her own.

As for the last accusation, Heather neither confirms nor denies it…

So naturally, the ravenette has a scheduled place in the music class.

The emerald eyed brunette sat ever so quietly at the end of the arched row of chairs as far from her other section mates as possible, a fact the first seat violin found odd but said nothing.

Heather took in the sight of the stringed instrument: its body lost quite a bit of its polished luster finish and its finger board was scratched and indented in places form the strings being pressed down. Yet, each string was in perfect tune; a sign of being well loved and cared for.

Unlike herself, Heather found herself envious of the inanimate object.

The violin was property of the school as her legal guardians adamantly refused to "waste their hard earned money on the likes of her." To this Heather shrugged nonchalantly, she already knew, garnering a look of heart wrenching comprehension from the school counselor. Heather never understood the pitying looks sent her way; truly she isn't worth anyone's time or money. Heather is a freak of nature, she receives nothing less than she deserves.

Soon enough, the ravenette found herself deaf to every off key note and irrelevant conversation by the most beautiful sound she had ever heard, evergreen eyes catching sight of a faint glow from an empty practice room window…

Heather was awoken from her reverie by the deafening silence. Only when she felt a cool weight in her hand did she open her eyes, an action that she had no recollection of doing, did she notice she wasn't alone in the room she somehow wound up in.

The music professor, whose name she missed, wore a gentle rueful expression on her face; her eyes pained but accepting as if silently saying good bye to a departing friend she may never see again and yet fully unwilling to keep them from their happiness.

What would she miss so dearly, yet liberate so willingly?

Upon looking down, Heather's breath caught in her throat at the ornate beauty of a violin that lay across her lap, rather contently she might add. She stared questioning her admittedly lacking sanity, wondering if an inanimate object has the ability to feel anything, let alone content.

A wave of pure amusement of indeterminate origin washes over and puts her jumbled thoughts at peace.

" _It's like…_ " Heather briefly wondered if even _thinking_ the word would jinx her…only to find herself incapable if caring at the current moment, her already rotten luck can't get any more so (or so she thinks…), " _magic._ " The violin sang its pleasure at her conclusion.

Heather put the unresolved dilemma aside for the moment as she took her first real look at the object in question; it had a lustrous ebony wood body, a gold accented engraving reading _Melody_ in vine like calligraphy along the lower bout, strange runes were carved and in lain with gold into the thin sides of its body, and shining with a mysterious aura.

It- no, Melody felt very much alive, and Heather accepts this fact.

The ravenette looks pointedly at Melody, then back to the professor, her eyes inquisitive.

"As I am sure you have guessed, this is no ordinary instrument you now hold," The woman laughed at the evident shock on the girl's face, "as indicated by the engraving, her name is Melody."

"Her full title is Vagabond Melody, Healer of the Broken," She informed, "and today, she is living up to given status as a wanderer."

Heather looked confused, "Oh, I'm terrible at explaining things, do pardon me…" the girl nodded for the flustered woman to continue, "…in any case, Melody is alive in a sense and long story short chose you to be her next companion and eh…Patient if you will until she decides her mission is accomplished." While the elucidation (1) made little sense to Heather, it was clearly the only way to explain the situation at hand, profoundly indicating that even the _professor_ didn't know everything about the mystifying object in question.

With the shake of her head, the music professor conceded with a tone of finality and assurance, "Only time and experience will shed light on the answers you seek." The woman contemplated her next words carefully, wonder just how much the girl knew of her parents and the world she was born to, "Knowing more about yourself and past will be essential to answering the questions you have about _your_ new knew friend there."

At this point, the green eyed ravenette resolved to uncover her unknown past. Although, going about that was truly a conundrum in itself.

"But even knowing that much, she will remain an enigma by any set of laws; written, spoken or otherwise." The professor stated frankly, "Knowing of Melody's origins is key, once again living up to her vagabond status. Ever wandering and just as secretive; their origin unknown to all save the one in question."

Heather's curiosity was piqued, an inquisitive gleam made her jaded emerald eyes glitter like gems; for the first time, in the short time she knew Heather, the young girl looked her physical age.

The woman preened her metaphorical feathers in pride for bringing a small light to eyes that have seen far too much, far too young.

"With that said, no more is known of her past companions save myself and the one who bestowed her to me, at Melody's volition. Rowena was a mother figure to me as my own had died years prior to meeting her; both of them were." The professor closed her eyes, her happy smile morphing into a wistful one at a disturbing thought that plagued an otherwise happy memory.

"At this point, I leave her in your care." The woman smiles perhaps _too_ brightly and stands up, "My parting advice to you is as follows; take care of her and she will repay you tenfold. There is only one way to repay her: to let her go when she calls for another." She advises, "But rest easy, Heather, she will not be leaving you _any time_ soon, that much is assured. In fact, I'd chance to say you might become her favorite adventure yet." She smiled knowingly at that last part.

Heather sat stupefied by the aspect of returning to her blood relations' house with her new mystifying companion. But what of Melody's safety?

As if reading her mind, the professor replied to unspoken question, "It's not _her_ safety I'd worry for…" came the cryptic answer, as she quickly left the room before the small ravenette could protest.

Heather had a smile on her face for the rest of the day, even when the Dursleys' dragged her to the car, only to be promptly locked in her cupboard for whatever reason Uncle Vernon thought perfectly justified.

Heather couldn't bring herself to care the reason. It was invalid.

That night, Melody lulled Heather to sleep, a small smile rested easily on her sleeping face. For the first time in her short life, she was content.

* * *

\- ( **Of muggle antics and acts of rebellion by inanimate objects** ) -

Murphy's Law states that anything that can go wrong will go wrong; and additionally stating that if something has not gone wrong, it is waiting for a much worse time to go wrong.

And this, it seems, is one of these times.

Heather watches the proceedings with rampaging trepidation and burning righteous anger. However, the ravenette desists from giving her legal guardians the pleasure of reaction.

Thus, she watches from behind an impassive mask at their antics with ambivalence; at the multitude of failed attempts to dispose of or separate Melody from her.

Perhaps and explanation is in order…

The following morning after meeting and bonding with Melody, her cousin whom she loathingly dubs pig-in-a-wig (while silently apologizing to the tasty animal she had just blatantly insulted) was set loose in order to sniff out truffles*…particularly, one named Heather.

Heather was rudely awoken at being lugged around by the back of her oversized rags she called a shirt to the living room, where Dudley was raising a riot. At what, Heather could not discern in her current state.

He pointed at her limp bleary eyed person; at the violin case she had held in an iron grip to her front explicitly (she was unaware of this detail…until later).

"It's probably school property, Dudley-kins," cooed Petunia, whom hilariously resembled a horse-head-on-a-stick other normal kids her age would play pretend with, in what she felt was a placating tone before turning her steely gaze to Heather, "Right, Freak?"

Heather merely tilts her head to the side mutely, her jet black hair in disarray from resting, to rub the sleepy blurriness out of her eye with a balled fist calmly…too calmly for the middle aged woman to ignore; the dangling girl offered up no response.

It was as if… "Is she even awake, Vernon?" looking pointedly at the one in question.

"Well, are you, Girl?" he spat at the outwardly demure girl, but not expecting a verbal response. He loved and hated this new development; no more questioning or arguing, but making his own endeavors at questioning _her_ completely moot.

Uncle Vernon (a relation she is far from proud of) is a whale of a man with enough blubber on him to make a whaler turn his way. The mental image in itself forced her bite back a laugh (but she still sent a mental apology to the graceful sea dweller for that off-comment regardless).

Apparently she missed something, because momentarily she wound up dazed and lying prostate the carpeted floor sporting a sore back and found herself looking at a very upside world.

" _Whazzahfuchkh…?_ " came the intelligent thought.

Heather watched lethargically as the travesty-of-a-mare opened plain the black case and the abject shock that planted itself onto her face at the sight of the beautiful creation.

Then Dudley spotted something that Heather had yet to notice before now; a small black plaque on the zipper cover with her name engraved and inlaid with gold in the same artfully elegant calligraphy as on Melody itself.

"Lying thieving girl!" Petunia accused, "Who did you steal this from! It's too beautiful and expensive looking to be yours!"

Funny, how Heather was thinking the same. She gave no response.

A surge of protective instinct ran though her Heather as the homely woman motioned to hand the instrument, her new companion, to her cousin. " _He'll break it-her like everything else!_ " she glares fiercely, picking herself up and lunging herself at the now pale terrified boy.

Minutes later Heather was locked up in her cupboard; silent, bitter tears burning pale trails down her unwashed face. She failed Melody…she couldn't keep her promise to the woman who entrusted her with her former companion's safety and care*. (A/N: she coincidentally forgot the teacher's last statement)

Busy drowning in her mental anguish, she didn't hear the sound of something being fitfully chucked into the spare room (that quintessentially served the role of a graveyard for broken things), nor the loud pitiful whining of her cousin; All within an hour.

She was forced out later to slave away on dinner (that she couldn't have any of, not that she was particularly hungry at this point anyways) and smirked despite herself at his rehashed rant, "It's broken, mum. I tried playing it, it made no sound…"

" _Curious_ ", Heather muses, " _always played for me._ "

"…not even when I threw it across the room!" Heather glared heatedly at the dunderheaded brat. " _Is it really any wonder why he has a small bedroom half filled with broken or discard things._ " Either her look went unnoticed or was pointedly ignored.

She leaned more towards the former, however, when he showed no signs of being bothered by the eyes glaring holes through his back and no smirk splitting his face.

That night, as she fitfully slept, Melody appeared by Heather's side unharmed and soon was enveloped in the arms of a now peacefully slumbering child, her mere presence chased away the nightmares plaguing _her_ girl.

The next day, the Dursleys confiscated Melody and locked her in the basement. For good measure, they also locked Heather in her cupboard as well, only letting her out to use the loo.

That night, all hell broke loose.

At approximately 1:30 in the morning, an explosion shook the very foundation of the house and jolted number 4's residents awake; but strangely only them.

Heather, now awake, was pleasantly surprised that new her friend lay contently next to her on her cot. Melody seemed disgruntled, her aura flickering in annoyance, at the fact she had been locked in the stuffy basement, _instead_ of with her girl.

Melody, like the better part of two nights, found herself the snuggle buddy of her girl. Heather noted with awe as her only friend's flickering vexation gave way to immediate humming contentment with the action.

She fell asleep to Melody's soothing humming.

Her guardians assessed the damage the next morning; two Dursleys were reduced to slack jawed fools at the sight of the perfectly round epicenter of the explosion with boxes haphazardly thrown about; lying around either damaged, squashed or just gone. At least one item, Heather observed, was blown out the now shattered windows from the force of the explosion. Petunia broke into a fit of tears at the sheer mess she had to reorganize –for she felt she could not trust Heather to not deliberately destroy anything else– and for the irreplaceable and priceless china, family heirlooms and keepsakes of her now deceased parents, that lay scattered in innumerable shards on or embedded in the floor and walls, and buried amongst a pile of splinters that once served as a door or outside with the many shards of blown out window glass.

Heather starred in wide-eyed shock at the image of mayhem before her, but could not muster up any feelings of pity for the broken woman on her knees; only sadistic amusement.

The rest of the day, Heather wore a smug smile with Melody against her back –that strangely enough, went unseen by all but herself– and at one point, wordlessly humming part of a song she heard on the radio once, following along with lyrics she remembered in her head:

Woah, Mona Lisa,

I'd pay to see you frown

Say what you mean

Tell me I'm right

And let the sun rain down on me

Give me a sign

I want to believe

There's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you've paid for*(3)

* * *

( **Melody, Meet Fireplace...** )

The next two days entailed assimilating and organizing anything salvageable –which was not much as more than expected was just gone, and even more was irreparable fine china– and a plethora of phone calls that for the most part were ignored in favor of it all being an overzealously elaborate prank. It amazed Heather when one glass fitter _actually_ came. Upon completing his job he left skeptical, and muttering about having been quite sure these people have bats in the belfry*(4).

This was all well and good for Heather as she was given free reign of her time…and the pantry; but for the most part, she practiced scales and melodies (in many of the aforementioned scales). Heather found she was perfectly content, and for the first time was not asleep to find such a reprieve.

But as they say, all good things must come to an end.

On the third day, her time on cloud nine abruptly ended.

Vernon held her Melody precariously close to the lit fireplace, exasperation rolling off of her in waves. Heather hid her unnerve behind her trained impassive mask as she stood helplessly with her arms held behind her back by one of Dudley's pudgy hands, the other unoccupied one fisted in her newly washed hair –having done so during the two days of being left to her own devices– pulling it at such an angle she could not turn her head, close her eyes, or look away discreetly without bringing about more comfort for herself, even more than her current position granted her.

Aunt Petunia sat off to Heather's right in the pale blue love seat, her already equine-like face made more hideous by the bags under her eyes indicating a distinct lack of sleep (Dudley was no better off), her bloodshot eyes focused solely on her cringe worthy niece's stony expression ready to capture Heather's satisfying misery to placate her own desire for requital after what she had lost merely three days ago. One that, by the end of it all, remained woefully unsated.

Petunia had always jealous of her sister; Lily had been the looker of the family as well as the talented one and it seems her daughter had inherited her beautifully soft features, as well as some of her father's sharp, rugged appeal. Her ebony hair, untamed and spirited as it was, had done nothing to detract from her promising beauty; and nor did being a filthy unwashed mess. It infuriated her to no end, and in her sleep deprived mind, found it completely reasonable to watch the girl suffer for daring to promise to be so handsomely beautiful. She avoids her eyes, which she knows to be the hauntingly familiar bright emerald green of her estranged and late younger sister; the last look of betrayal still haunts her to this day.

Blubber-sama*(5) then proceeded to interrogate Heather about the latest development, only to receive affirmative or negative shakes of the head, unsure shrugs of her shoulders (which hurt her to do), or no reaction at all the various stratagems to induce a verbal response from the reticent ravenette; she remained steadfastly silent. That wont(2) paired with those piercing green eyes of hers, which he contends glow with inherited freakishness (for he objects to even _think_ that cursed word), make a formidable combination.

Her innate ability to instill fear by simply _looking_ at him, or anyone else for that matter, secretly unnerves him. He, much to his chagrin and envy, had to work at perfecting this particular ability.

After obtaining no real answers from the obstinate child, he tossed the uncased instrument into the crackling flames, fully expecting the thing to be slowly burned to a pile of ash*(6).

But it was not to be.

Melody's aura flared, and then she vanished from sight. Petunia, whose eyed had been darting between the ravenette's face and the fireplace, in that very moment was the facsimile of a threatened possum; and Heather, an imp.

She was, as usual, locked up in cupboard with melody as ever by her side.

Thus, bringing her up this day; Heather watched as the land whale (not to be confused with land shark*(7)) personally handing the trash collector a chained up trashcan. Heather sighed, yet another attempt.

"I can only hope your day is not as _rubbish_ …as mine, good sir." Vernon remarked in what he thought was a witty manner, as he laughed himself silly at his own joke.

Dudley let Heather go as a token of goodwill, and both made themselves as scarce as possible. The cousins, nodding in a tentative truce, shared a look that clearly read, "I don't know him."

The trash collector appreciated the gaily(3) laughing man's not-so-phunny joke as much as the shrinking children and grimacing wife. He gave the rotund man an odd constipated look before turning his gaze to the suddenly much more interesting ground and shaking his head incredulously, hurriedly signaling for the driver to move on to the next house as he got in the doorless passenger seat just as quickly.

Needless to say _that_ particular employee avoided Vernon like the bubonic plague from that day forth.

Moral of the story, blatant puns make bad jokes...and as Heather predicted, Melody was later discovered safely in her cupboard…so yeah.

* * *

\- ( **Bodyguard Melody** ) –

Uncle Vernon did not his promotion, and it's _all_ Heather's fault.

" _What a brilliant display of deductive reasoning_ ," the ravenette mused sarcastically, " _ever the epitome of sensibility and intelligence._ "

She scoffed derisively. Not.

Heather sat half sprawled on the ground, watching the man flap his thick arms like an attention seeking seal, taking in the barked out expletives and slanderous comments; at who, she was unsure.

But there was one thing she _was_ sure of; one being her tremendously expanded of blasphemous words, as well as her competence to string said words together and make sense of it at the same time.

Most of the man's rant was incomprehensible, save a few coarse mentions and a legion of admittedly creative locker-room utterances that no five-year-old should hear, let alone understand.

" _Operative word being 'should'_ "

"…saddled with you thanks to that meddling old buffoon…all your fault…you freak of nature…!"

" _So the usual then, it's entirely my fault and I'm a freak_." Heather mused, " _What's new?_ "

Either the pitiful man is going with the reinforcement method or is merely uncreative –although the latter could be easily disproved as he was plenty creative when he insulted his boss' secretary– or maybe she was just a special case...

Better yet, just who this "meddling old buffoon" anyway?

The ravenette was shocked out of her reverie when the resident harridan cared out in shock, "Not her head, Vernon, and most not when that thing can actually kill her." The horse faced woman nagged irately, snatching the iron-headed shovel out of his pudgy hands, "I _won't_ be going to jail for being a murder accomplice! Just use your fists, you dunderhead!"

" _Well,_ " Heather shuddered as her heart raced in her chest, " _that's new…_ "

Uncle Vernon ignored the woman's scathing insult as he seized Heather by front of her holey shirt, fist cocked back and poised to strike in a very real threat to leave her in a world of pain.

Heather crossed her arms in front of her face in a defensive "X", bracing for the pain to come.

He swung…

And was violently thrown back, hitting the brick wall; Hard. Minuscule cracks spider webbed out from the vertex of impact. Heather was gently deposited on the soft earthen floor.

Wailord*(8) lay in a lumpy crumpled heap, unconscious; while Heather sat completely unharmed on the cushiony grass with not even a sore tush.

" _How…?_ " Then she felt a reassuring weight on her back. It was Melody, " _Thank you, my one true friend_." She smiled appreciatively.

While the shrewish woman fretted over her motionless husband, Heather made her getaway to a small grove in the forest bordering the uptown housing area, and bowed the day away with Melody.

She forgot to go back to her relative's house that night.

* * *

( **She Fell to ashes...** )

Heather was sent reeling back as a harsh knee to her ribs shot agony throughout her body, effectively causing the girl to fall into a balled up heap on the once white carpet and coming to facing the wall. She failed to contain the tortured scream that left her raw throat.

She found herself laboring for breath, blood welling up in her mouth at an alarming rate and slipping out of her agape lips.

How did she wind up in this predicament again…?

Another hit, another suffering groan.

" _Oh yeah…I tried to escape, only to be caught unlocking the door…_ " her pain addled mind supplied. " _Why was I even trying to escape again…?_ " She searched her head for a comprehensive thought somehow finding it in the jumbled mess that was her mind, " _He was drinking again_." If she had thought he was irrationally violent _without_ alcohol, she now knew that he was much more volatile _under the influence_.

Kick. Wince.

She usually avoided him when he got this way. But tonight, lady luck was _not_ on her side.

She mutely gasped as something impacted and cut into her forehead, leaving a bleeding gash along her hairline, prompting more of her life blood to settle into her raven hair and the carpet under her.

For the most part, she was perfectly content to ignore his drunken ramblings; until his last remark, that is:

"Speak idiot girl, speak! You make everything more difficult by not speaking you munger scrubber!"

Now, she could ignore the fact he essentially called her a _really_ ugly prostitute, which was physically impossible (as she is still in fact a maiden…), but not at his disquiet at the silence he beat into her all those months ago.

" _This ends tonight, one way or another_." Heather clenches her fists white, her mind resolute. Her power crackled in the surrounding air fueled by her rampaging anger, throwing and pinning the drunk, compensating man against the wall, glaring with wrathful eyes.

The deplorable monster was about to imperiously demand to be let down this instant, but the words died in his throat at the scathing look of pure hatred in those emerald eyes, that glowing an acid green in a very wolf-like manner with unrestrained power.

Adrenaline over rid the coursing agony as she stood. Heather, bloody and brutalized, looked every part the martyr*(10) she was.

She turned and left the room unhindered and unaccosted, tacitly(3) letting a warning hang in the dead silence, and not even the nocturnal critters dared let out a sound lest the perceived predator find them.

Heather gathered Melody, who sang in worry and regret, and positioned her in her rightful place at her back, a small pouch filled with money she earned by doing small chores for the appreciative neighbors, and the baby swiss army knife Dudley had upon receiving, handed surreptitiously to Heather and mouthing "In case of emergency."

This defiantly counts as an emergency.

More determined than ever Heather did the sane thing and made a second attempt to undo the last lock of her incarcerator's lair*(11) , and growled near ferally when her diminutive height forbade her access to the very top catch.

Heather flinched when a portly shadow loomed over her, shuddering in dread…deep seeded fear started to consume her…

Until she looked up at the faint clicking of an undone lock, the warm summer night's air rushing in from the crack in the door gently eased her maddening terror.

Dudley wore an expression of heart wrenching contrition(3), his watery blue suspiciously bright with unshed tears.

She looked at him wide-eyed, " _He helped me but..._ "

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you before," he sniffed, and taking a shuddering breath, "But I can now. I got a plan, and all I need you to do is listen to me, okay Heather?" he said, a newfound determination hardened his eyes.

She nodded just as determinedly, if a bit dubiously.

"When we reach piers' house, at my cue, just _run_ …and I'll do my part." He grabbed her petit hand, spitefully leaving the front door wide open.

* * *

(Time skip)

Despite her ailing body she kept up with the taller boy. Upon reaching their destination, Dudley surprised her by pulling her into a gentle embrace ever mindful of her injuries, "If this works, we'll both be free of _them_ , and they will be in big trouble; a win-win-lose."

He elaborated further, "I wanted out the moment _he_ started doing this to you. I hope one day if…no, when, we meet again, that you can forgive me for being a prat; I had to." Heather felt him shudder in memory of something, "Or I couldn't help you at all."

She nodded in understanding, accepting the apology; an imperceptible smile grew on her red lips. "I'll start earning it today, by helping you get away and I'll get revenge on them on your behalf; for the pain you went through because I was too weak to suffer alongside you."

"Would you believe that I wanted a sibling or a cousin, a girl one 'cause I wanted to play with and spoil and protect them but even if you were a boy I still would've treated you the kinda same, cause 'yknow you'd be a boy. But when I had one just down the stairs, I was told I had to be mean and hurt you…and if I was caught helping or being nice to you, _he_ said he would throw me to the streets and would make sure nobody in their right mind would take me in or help me. So if I was kicked out, I couldn't protect you at all." He babbled just coherently though his full blown sobbing. Heather peered up at her cousin and finally returned the small show of affection, for the first and quite possibly the last time for a long time.

He let her go, facing her towards the bordering woods. "…run!" He whispers harshly.

She bolted off, never once looking back. The boy watched her until he could no longer discern her shadow from the surrounding darkness.

Only then, did Dudley set off to do his self-appointed task; All in the name of his sweet broken cousin…

* * *

(Time skip)

Upon reaching the center of the local park, she perched herself on the fountain's edge, then she took in her devastated appearance; blood-matted raven hair and red smeared face, a blood-congealed shirt that hung off one shoulder exposing a particularly nasty gash over her prominent collarbone –which clotted up during her get-away– with broken and red spattered opticals.

Heather Potter was the embodiment(4) of pity.

"I have to hide, in plain sight." she decided

Heather opened the blade part of her red and silver Swiss knife, placing it down on the fountain's edge.

She gathered her blood congealed mane in a firm hold, and used the nearest reflective surface –this being the water– raising the razor edge to the raven feather locks.

Shoulder length is good; mid-neck length is _better_. She sawed back and forth twice before the remaining strands fell into their desired placement. Heather let fall the hacked off locks, a few stubbornly adhering to her hand. She swished the appendage in the water, watching mesmerized as midnight wisps danced on the distorting crystal surface, as the life giving agent encircled her hand faded from red to pink then evanescing(5), as if never there.

She must become anonymous… a faceless nonperson… zero…

Heather removed the distinctive bifocals; these, too, must go. Folding the arms reverently in a preemptive apology for her next course of action, she tossed them somewhere in front of her; they landed in the water on the other side of the park fountain with a quietly echoing ' _ploink_ '.

Turning heel, she ran sightlessly onward into the unknown.

* * *

(Time skip)

After what felt like hours of running, Heather paused to wipe her brow free of accumulated perspiration, inadvertently nudging the newly formed scab at her hairline; it started to bleed profusely.

She mouthed a curse that would make any adult wonder where she learned it, closing her right eye to keep blood from hindering her already poor vision. She tore a half detached sleeve from her shirt, pressing it to the reopened gash, hissing at the accompanying sting.

Soon though, it was drenched beyond usage; she threw the red-leaden rag to the side.

Well, at least the bleeding was slowed down to a manageable rate…until she could get professional help that is.

Heather traversed a few more meters, having thankfully crossed to the other side of the road, before feeling unnaturally uncoordinated (beyond even being nearly blind) and tired, her limbs in that moment were akin to lead, the world started to dance tauntingly before her eyes, and the ground seemed closer than before.

" _Oh, it was_ …" she mused intelligently as she fell on all fours. The cement scraped her knees and palms; the small pains opened the floodgate of agony.

Heather moaned agonizingly, blood once again welling up in her parched mouth, expectorating(6) viscous irony discharge on the ground below her.

While she was no medic she knew this didn't bode well for her, living on borrowed time as she is. Heather's frail and battered body, wracked with tremendous pain, fell to the unforgiving ground lying on its side; she noted this with a strangely serene calm as the all-consuming pain gradually gave way to a comfortable numbness.

Turning her head as much as her deplorable state allowed, as she was immobile from the shoulders down, she peered at the sight before her. Heather knew of this place, yet ne'er once saw it; it was King's Cross Train Station. She took note of the arches supporting the clock tower presiding proudly overhead for all to see.

Heather was dying and she knew it; and she had a single regret. She only wished she could've given Melody the adventure she eagerly sought from her.

She smiled ruefully in memory of the music teacher (whose name she still has yet to learn) who bestowed Melody to her unworthy self, the light in her short anguished life, and making her last few weeks of life as happy and as fulfilling as possible. She found an unlikely ally in her estranged cousin; he gave her an opportunity to escape, and he hugged her for the first and last time.

Heather could only hope, his plan at the very least set _him_ free, for she was too far gone…

"I've always wanted to visit King's cross…" she muses faintly, wistfully aware that she'd not live long enough to see the interior, ever elusive to her leaden eyes that took on a startlingly dead appearance, and beckoned her to sleep…

Then oblivion swallowed her whole…

* * *

(...To Be Reborn a Phoenix)

Heather awoke to a plethora of sounds; of incoming and outgoing steam engines, the protesting of steel wheels coming to a halt, some being churned into action, and the buzzing of echoed voices.

Bleary emerald eyes opened for the first time in days; her head aching, her body and limbs sore and stiff from a combination of reasons.

Uncurling gingerly, Heather moaned lowly as the stiffness is dashed by the movement. Her spine realigned itself in a series of sickening pops and cracks, sending a feeling of pleasurable relief throughout her body and making the soreness in her limbs all the more apparent.

Still lying down, she stretched her limbs free of torpor(7). Heather reached out a naked arm to lift her warm cover; she instantly regretting the action as her eyes, so unused to sunlight, burned and teared up from sudden exposure and let the cover shroud her in darkness once again.

This time, Heather gradually let in light until she could see clearly (as much as a half-blind girl can) without pain.

Peering at her sideways world from her prostrate position, she could make out the vast number of stacked trunks forming an enclosed area supported by a brick pillar, and a small inconspicuous opening just wide enough to egress and ingress.

Heather sat up from her disagreeable bedding, which happened to be yet another trunk, her head swimming briefly. A draft from somewhere caressed her bare abdomen; the ravenette fleetingly enjoyed the summer breeze on her naked skin.

Wait a tick…that would imply a certain of undress…then she looked down…

Buggering nonce*(12)! She was starkers! In a very public, very crowded building, no less!

Heather looked around her man made cove red-face and flustered, wondering how the bloody hell nobody stumbled across her yet.

Not that it was illegal anything…then she remembered the male streaker that paraded through the park one day, completely starkers save for the yellow outlined orange letters painted down his nicely toned front and back reading "Chudley Cannons" (front and back respectively), bearing a flag with a winged insignia colored and reading the same that flowed behind him as he dished by; cheering the whole time, not at all embarrassed or ashamed.

" _…speaking of behinds…it was a right toned one…_ " came the unbidden but honest thought, as idyll as it was.

At this revelation, Heather no longer felt any shame at her nudity. At this point she gathers that her "pillow" was in fact a black messenger bag and next to her lay Melody humming joyfully, perhaps even laughing as if having read her mind.

In the bag, she discovered, was her coin pouch, her knife, and a set of clothing consisting of a pure white sundress, sky-blue boxers (" _Hmm,_ n _ever worn under garments before…_ "), and a pair of tan soled, white strapped sandals.

Every item fit her perfectly; and given the time of year, was perfect for the weather.

Now dressed, she perches on the trunk that served as her bed and sits there pondering the topic she tried and evidently failed to avoid.

" _How am I alive anyway?_ " she expected no answer, but still hoped for a sign. Anything. Mental sigh, nothing…as expected.

" _Better yet, where am I?_ " then it hit her, well, like a steam engine. There was a saying, "When in doubt, look up." So she did, wholly expecting the heavens above to answer her question.

Heather was _not_ disappointed. The glass domed high roof gave the setting an archaic chapel feel.

She suspected where she was…but first…

" _Thank you savior_ _*(13), for giving me a chance to live a free life, for allowing me to fulfill a promise a kind music professor, to Melody; I will give her an adventure of a lifetime…for allowing me to see the aftermath of my cousin's plan. Thank you…for letting me live my only selfish dream, to visit King's Cross. And here I will stay…_ "

Somewhere, a lone woman shed a single tear, knowing she changed a life forever.

Heather brought Melody close, " _I will take you on adventure you will never forget…_ "

Melody sang giddily in response.

Standing, Heather passed through the narrow gap of her newly christened sanctuary, and disappeared into a crowd of towering strangers, seemingly shrouded in a metaphorical cloak of long sought after ambiguity.

Little did the little ravenette know how true her words would ring…

* * *

(End of memory)

As the last note dispersed into silence, there was not a single dry eye or unstained face to be seen. But the applause came as enthusiastic as ever. Heather was in the same state, as she bowed her head modestly in thanks, eyes made brighter with unshed tears.

Heather looked every part the pure, yet broken, angel she was.

A young girl, no older than three, shyly approached Heather looking up at her imploringly with a fully bloomed twig of lilac hued heathers grasped gently in her hand.

The older girl knelt down, wordlessly inviting the child to place it behind her ear. Heather adjusted the flower of her namesake slightly before hugging the unresisting girl in heart-felt thanks for the small, but meaningful, offering; the exuberant child immediately responded in kind before skipping back to her mother, chatting away about "the sad angel" accepting her gift and how "Angel thanked Elsie for making her happy again."

Heather blushed, "Angel?" she bashfully smiled at the surrounding crowd who smiled gently at the display, most agreeing with the little girl; the small purple blooms were a stark contrast to her raven hair and made her eyes seemingly glow.

"An angel indeed." Her mother acquiesced; she watched the young girl carefully entrap the stem into a braid behind her ear and tie it off with a small green rubber band. At this time people brought forth their own offerings of appreciation to her that, with grace, she accepted.

Heather housed Melody in her case and stood. Upon noticing a familiar face, she froze in recognition…

* * *

 **(A/N):** Before anyone asks, no, Heather has not come to terms with her past; in fact, she's trying to deny it, to forget it happened. The closer she comes to accepting herself as a person and not a waste of air, the closer she is… but whether or not if she can bring herself to talk about it is of no consequence, she will never be okay. 99.99% is as okay as she ever will get; maybe less than that, but never more.

And if I wasn't clear enough, Heather does not know of Dudley's discreet, and some not so discreet, favors and subtle preparation; she isn't the only one who wants out, after all. She only realizes this when he explains his past actions, and she quickly realizes this fact. But understanding doesn't necessarily mean she forgave him. Around age 7 is the age of reason. He may be slow to the take and weak academically, but he's not completely a lost cause. He, while it's for the most part overlooked, is in some way abused. He's morbidly overweight for his age and his parents are doing nothing about that…as well as his lack of discipline, a form of neglect if you will. So yes, it is abuse, at least my mind.

Heather is a victim of circumstance, therefore a martyr; she is hated and/or envied for having magic, for having a natural appeal, intrigue and the innate ability of intimidation. Something both her abusers hate or are lacking.

~on a happier note, just _who_ could it be...?~

Send in a review if you have any questions, comments, or ideas to improve your understanding of the story and/or the subject at hand.

 **Reviewers:**

 **Minna Vipera:** thx for the advice, I did and will heed this in the future.

 **(Guest) Snow-Angel** : thx, and will do ASAP.

 **Sinful Vanity** : thx again for the honest review, and I do hope I edited the summary to be more eye catching.

Details to keep in mind for future reference (and the symbolism behind them):

*only those that apply will be in the author's notes section of each chapter.

~The phantom raven: Two aspects of Heather:

· A visual representation of her solemn swear to never speak a word again. She will break this vow later on, of course; she just doesn't realize that it's completely normal to ask questions. Her treatment doesn't exactly support any other opinion.

· An animalistic comparison to what she sees herself as; Ravens, like crows, are often seen as a bad omen or a foreteller of misfortune due to their carrion diet as scavengers (most, but not all cases).

~The shed phantasmal feather: Her Innocence of mind; once lost it cannot found again.

~Melody's runes: most, if not all, are protective runes. The only mentioned few that are _not_ solely protection but a precaution are the invisibility and the unbreakable runes. The tracking mechanism is actually a charm, the tracking charm. But how does Melody just appear by Heather…that's the mystery (You may speculate, but I won't tell you even IF you are right). *wink*

~Chopping off her hair: Physically leaving the past behind.

~Broken glasses: Sightless of the future to come.

~Blood drenched rag: Living on borrowed time.

~the blood imbued water:

· The water is her soul; so clear of a conscious evil taint and so innocent of many things about the world.

· The blood mixing in is the visual taint of suffering, hatred, and bigotry she endured; it is there, but is not seen, or shown.

*starred facts*

*(0) Given that Heather was around one and a half at the time.

*(1) Pigs love truffles. It is common practice to send out pregnant female pigs to sniff out those rare and expensive truffles, a type of mushroom.

*(2) She coincidentally forgot the last of her music professor's statements…hint: whose safety should Heather _NOT_ worry for…?

*(3) _The Ballad of Mona Lisa_ by Panic at the Disco

*(4) Bats in the belfry- Bats are, of course, the erratically flying mammals and 'belfries' are bell towers, sometimes found at the top of churches. 'Bats in the belfry' refers to someone who acts as though he has bats careering around his topmost part, that is, his head.

*(5) The Japanese suffix –sama translates to the English title of "Lord"; it also can be used in a mocking way, like the way I did in describing the _oh so lovable_ Dursley patriarch. (Eye roll)

-ex: Sesshomaru-sama = Lord Sesshomaru (comment if you get this reference)

The idea that something is too beautiful to exist, therefore must be destroyed.

*(6) The idea that something is so beautiful it must be destroyed. Think war mongers; peace is beautiful therefore, in their mind, must be destroyed.

*(7) Land shark\- One who comes out of nowhere and snag's another person's food before they know what's happening. Any land mammal can be a Land shark, as long as it uses speed to steal someone's food.

*(8) I have nothing against Wailord, pokemon fans, truly. I just had to.

*(9.1) Munger \- (British slang) someone who is seen as _really_ ugly.

*(9.2) Scrubber – (British slang) (usually referring to a woman) a prostitute offering sex for enough money.

*(10) Martyr\- _a person who is killed or who suffers greatly for a religion, cause, etc._ \- Google search.

*(11) "Insanity is defined as doing something over and over again, and expecting a different result." –Albert Einstein

*(12.1) Buggering\- _Verb. As a verb, the word is used by the British to denote sodomy (noun;_

 _sexual intercourse involving anal or oral copulation.). In GB, the phrase "Bugger me sideways" (or a variation of this) can be used as an expression of surprise. It can be used as a synonym for "broken", as in "This PC's buggered"; "Oh no! I've buggered it up"; or "It's gone to buggery"._ – Google search

*(12.2) Nonce\- _Nonce first came into widespread use in UK prisons, where it is primarily used by prisoners to refer to convicted sex offenders, especially abusers of children. "Nonces" are traditionally targets of physical abuse from their prison inmates, and so usually go on Rule 45 (formerly Rule 43),[1] the rule that enables the segregation of vulnerable prisoners from the other prisoners for their own safety. The Rule 45 section of British prisons in which sex offenders are segregated (also known as going on 'The Numbers' or, in rhyming slang, 'The Cucumbers') is often referred to as the "nonce wing"_ \- Wiki

*(13) No, not God…she is not a believer because she was never helped before this point. She is talking about the mysterious person who saved her life… (No, I won't tell you who, Neh)

Phoenix\- the Phoenix is a legendary Arabian bird which is said to periodically burn itself to death and emerge from the ashes as a new phoenix, a symbol of life, death and rebirth. In Heather's case, she escapes domestic abuse, thus gaining a new life; one of her creation (until fate steps in, of course). She is a survivor.

(1) Elucidation\- n. explanation that makes something clear; clarification.

(2) Wont\- (no it's not a spelling error) adj. _(of a person) in the habit of doing something; accustomed. (Heather's wont of perpetual silence.); one's customary behavior in a particular situation; mannerism, quirk._ -Google search.

(3) Contrition\- _sincere penitence or remorse._ -Google search

(4)Embodiment\- a tangible or visible form of an idea, quality, or feeling; the representation or expression of something in a tangible or visible form.

(5) Evanesce(ing)\- _pass out of sight, memory, or existence._ -Google search

(6) Expectorating- cough or spit out from the throat or lungs.

(7) Torpor- _a state of physical or mental inactivity; lethargy._ –Google search.

Question: Hmm, who could it be that Heather met up with? feel free to guess -.*


	3. From Scotland to England and Back

**Disclaimer** : I do not own any part of the HP franchise, only this plot line and my female incarnation of our boy-who-lived, minor changes, and my OC aka my (shameless) montage. Ashlen Fennec is herself...plz enjoy and do comment if you will... it will feed my desire to write more if you do -.o

 **(A/N)** : I am updating as fast as I can. thx all for the kind reviews, visits and views, it keeps me inspired. not that i'm not already; this is dedicated to my mom for being a phoenix, she endured suffering no child should suffer and yet found happiness in my father and, well, had me and still an overall very good person through all of it; she did not do it alone, however. This is also a tribute my great grandmother, her grandmother, who achieved the seemingly impossible. she raised my mother when she needed her most, she nursed (as was her job at the time, so yes, pun intended -.o) her back to health and gave her the love her the love she so sorely lacked.

"She taught me how to be a strong woman, to stand up for myself, and not back down when I know I'm right."-my mom

Also, I changed my pen name from _Vyletta Fae_ and _Ashlen Callula Fennec_ to my final choice, **Ashlen the Moonstruck Aquarius**. The last time I change my pen name, I promise; I'd give a wizard's oath if such it existed outside the HP universe.

Warnings: rude insults (as I usually find myself doing to anyone I don't particularly like but never really say),

"Meep!" - normal speech

" _Meep!_ " - Thoughts

Meep! - normal text

 _Meep!_ \- in story text/ Cited from real life (in respective order)

* * *

Chapter 2- From England to Scotland and back; aroused curiosity

A boy, no older than 7 years old with white blond hair and quicksilver eyes, stared boredly outside the arched windows overlooking the garden, watching the seemingly endless procession of Thestral drawn carriages –although those lucky enough not to see them surmise them enchanted to be self-drawn – poured through the front gates like a waterfall.

This was no uncommon sight as he, Draco Lucius Malfoy the son and sole heir of the ancient and noble Malfoy line, has many casual acquaintances but no one to bestow the title of "Friend" to. No one he could stand anyways…

Any potential "playmate" often took the ingratiating approach; such as like flattery and simpering to his every demand all in aim to get into his good graces. There was no doubt in Draco's mind the simpletons would jump a cliff if he told them to, and more often than not he caught them staring after him like as if he were a rare and magical creature or simply followed him around (or clung to his wand arm) like lost puppies (or leeches).

He indiscreetly longed for someone to call a friend; one who would unashamedly drag him around like a rag doll and see him as a friend in return. Not to mention someone easy on the eyes and able to hold an intelligent conversation with (as much as could be expected from 6 year olds that is*(1)), interesting conversation with, and see him as another human being; one he can share his curiosity of the unknown world around them.

So naturally, he has yet to meet such a person; but he remains optimistic…

He has met the candidates thus far; none of which meeting of his standards (save for one).

There was Pansy Parkinson, a chubby, black haired, pug-faced girl, who clung to his arm like a leech; too annoying and pugly*(2). Then there were Crabbe and Goyle, both quite vast horizontally, enjoyed food perhaps too much, and far from the sharpest knife in the silverware drawer; good bodyguard/minion material and for making _him_ look better than he _already_ was (being the vain little git he knows he is), but too ugly, gluttonous, and plonkers*(3) to boot.

Now Blaise Zabini, he could see. The half Italian was a decent looking bloke, appearing to be one that would grow into his features nicely, and rather intelligent as well.

There was potential.

But…there is also that girl at the train station. Despite the fact her features were hidden by her black hood and the surrounding darkness, he knew she had a beauty about her for one as young as herself; one she would no doubt grow into. Her eyes were an enchanting hue of emerald that glowed with untamed wild magic. In their depths held a pain and distrust that made him wonder what she had seen and been through so early on. Draco, in his mind as a rich man's son, could not fathom why her expression lit up like Christmas at a measly 5 Galleons*(4) and blushed profusely at a few civil words from his unusually cordial father. It was as if…she had rarely, if never, been on the receiving end of a kind gesture. That and she had an unkempt look of a homeless child not unlike those that rampaged the streets; yet so unalike. How, he couldn't pinpoint at the moment.

A look of partial comprehension crossed Draco's face. He got the distinct impression that family is not _all_ she lacked.

Draco's musings at this point gave way to a contently quiet mind. Then his quicksilver eyes once again fell to the front gates…

The boy's newly obtained good mood plunged into a metaphorical abyss of negativity at the sight.

"Oh, right, the party tonight…" the blond clicked his tongue childishly, "to find my 'playmate'."

Draco was no fool. He knows his parents are with-…not telling him something, judging by the way his father implies a single "playmate"; no more no less.

Childish indignation rippled through his hydragyrum (high-drah-gare-ruhm)*(5) eyes. He has every right to know, he seethed, he is en-tight-tled…entitled to know this in-for…what is really going on!

At this point, the child heir straitened from his slouched position (as much as he'd deny it as he is a Malfoy and a Malfoy _never_ slouches!) on the black leather divan and rising to his feet, striding towards the family sitting room where he know his mother would be enjoying an afternoon tea and biscuits.

* * *

In the sitting room the young heir is currently making his way determinedly to, as he predicted sat Narcissa Malfoy nee Black. The beautiful young woman easily looked to be in her mid-twenties with two toned blonde hair and ice blue eyes. On her lap sat an open book from the manor's library, one excerpt in particular on page 49 piquing her interest:

...

 ** _Soul Marks and Soul Mates: section 7_**

 ** _Intro_**

 _Every witch or wizard has their one true soul mate, whom are marked with identical images or markings imprinted upon their bodies at birth. It only becomes visible on the older when one's mate is born and fades upon the death of one party (refer to pg. 50)._

 ** _The Legend_**

 _Hecate, the goddess of magic (witchcraft, sorcery, necromancy, ect.) had long observed mortals toil away in their lives. One day, she took notice of the compatibility between two humans in particular. The pure innocent love they held would otherwise lead them to a long and happy lifetime together. She, for the first time in her long immortal life, hoped beyond hope at least those two would experience true happiness._

 _But it was not to be…_

 _The young woman, no more than a child really, was promised to a rich middle aged lord who had eyes only for her innocence (in all forms that it may take) and prestige, and never once considered her happiness._

 _The young man, enthralled as he was, swore to her many times during their clandestine meetings he would set her free from the curse their feuding families placed upon their young shoulders._

 _To the Goddess' grief they had parished, each by their own hands, before their love could truly blossom; all because of a petty grudge._

 _Thus, she decided to mark those she deemed the perfect matches, each beautifully unique and mirrored only on their destined one._

 _Despite her gentle guidance, her will and decree went ignored by a great many, namely by those of magical ancient and noble houses. Be it merely ignorance or purely defiance, she cursed any mismatched couple to suffer low infertility (Hecate's Fertitatis Minimum curse.), often resulting in a higher occurrence of miscarriages or few to no children of the mismatched bonded pair. _

_The opposite stands for her matched couples; the Goddess having blessed those who were receptive to her advice with high fertility (Hecate's Fertitatis Maximum blessing.) _

_**The First Meeting**_

 _When a destined pair is within the same premises of one another, their magic (the color of their core) will serve as a beacon visible only to each other, instinctual curiosity will draw the intended pair to the initial contact._

 _…_

The door silently opened as she marked her place, looking up to see the entering form of her young son. She had a hunch as to why he would seek her council this day. He no doubt spied the influx of carriages bearing party guests.

"Mother," Draco looked thoroughly peeved as he grumbled, "we had a party last week and the week before, what is the underlying pur-pose for them anyways?" he inquired, suspicion and unquestionable demand lacing his tone; yes, she knew _exactly_ why he sought her out today.

Just like herself, she detests being kept in the dark about something he has every right to be in the know of.

Closing the book, she merely gestured for him to join her. Draco smiled brightly, resembling the child he should be, climbing onto the couch and clambered over to her side on all fours before plopping himself down in an ungainly heap of limbs, then righting himself.*(6)

Narcissa, unlike her beloved yet stringent husband, does not reprimand Draco for his "undignified and childish display" for he is just that, a child of 6; therefore he, in her mind, has every right to be one.

The blonde woman took her child's small right arm into her hand and his sky blue silk pajama sleeve slunk down his pale arm with the movement, thus uncovering a very intricate and beautiful tattoo-like mark of a mercury scaled dragon whose wings were wide open in an intimidating yet defensive gesture, it's body and tail curled protectively around a single emerald green twig of heather adorned with small lilac hued blooms of its namesake.

"This Dragon is a soul mark. It is an indicator of your future spouse and constant companion." Narcissa explained briefly, awaiting his response.

Draco's once bright expression morphed into an adorable pout, despite his protests about not being adorable and the equally indignant argument that he is most certainly _not_ pouting, as his mother she feels it her _right_ to let him know that he does indeed do so. The fair haired boy turned his baffled gaze to his mother's patient blue pools, "But, Father said it marks my playmate…?" Draco's face twists in utter confusion.

His mother smiled soothingly, "That is all you two will be, until you are older. For you and your destined are too young to be anything more" She raised his head with an index finger under his chin, finding understanding shining in his eyes as he concluded, "So these parties are to find my soul mate…" the shining orbs dimmed to that of a dismayed stormy grey, "…but what if my destined is at none of the parties, what if their a muggleborn, half-blood, someone Father doesn't approve of, or…not born yet…?" Draco turned crestfallen eyes to the suddenly interesting sofa.

A valid point; she could only hope Lucius cared enough for his own child's happiness, unlike said man's own father –who tried (and evidently failed) to trap Lucius into a magically binding engagement with a physically perfect, but airheaded and gold digging (to put it politely), blonde bint*(7)- and not make the same mistake as the former patriarch.

" _No offence to blonds of course, my husband, my son and I just happen to be blond and happen to be highly intelligent._ " The dual tone blonde laughed liltingly at the self-deprecating slight.

The six-year-old sent her an odd look, she merely winked. "Later." She said simply, a tone of finality leaving no room for further discussion on the topic. Her son nodded, knowing any questions will not be answered…not yet, that is.

"I have reason to believe he would accept your destined; Muggleborn, half-blood, or pureblood alike, albeit accepting the former two of the three more hesitantly." She hypothesized, "No matter the case, your father and yourself should put faith in Hecate's, the goddess of magic, judgment; she never led me wrong."

While having been born to the ancient and noble pureblooded line of Black, notoriously known for their prejudice against any person of mixed or new blood, she would accept her son's destined one.

She, much alike yet unalike her currently incarcerated (but no less her favorite) cousin Sirius Black -long story for another more appropriate time-, was a white sheep in her views; She, in secret (like a true Slytherin) and Sirius, openly so (a brash Gryffindor indeed).

"I want for nothing more than your happiness, for you to live a long and fruitful life."

Narcissa contemplated whether or not to tell the other reason, deciding anything but the whole truth was a lie, "With destined couples, many children are prevalent, as opposed to mismatched couples, who come to suffer the _Fertitatis Minimum_ curse, or Hecate's low fertility curse. Your father and I are destined, but due to…many things I cannot give you any siblings even if I wanted to." She briefly looked down at her lap, ice blues dull and woeful, but continued regardless, "I will tell you many things as you mature and grow, mentally and physically. Until then, they are stories for years to come." Ice chip eyes turn to her son, love shining in their depths, "But be a child while you can; for me. After all innocence is fleeting, for once it is lost it can never be yours again."*(8)

Draco nodded; smiling brilliantly in reverence up at the woman he is proud to call his mother. The young boy earnestly wished, implored even, to any deity listening, for his destined to be as brutally honest as his mother for he, unlike so many, appreciates raw unbridled honesty.

So there, in the sitting room, mother and son sat contently together in each other's company, the son's boredom all but forgotten…

Until that infernal party, that is…He'd suffer through the ordeal; for her and her alone.

* * *

 ** _-Hogwarts, Headmaster's office-_**

An elderly man, donned in gold accented purple robes and sporting a groomed long silver beard, paced back and forth in front of his desk awaiting news of one Heather Jaclyn Potter, The-Girl-Who-Lived. Any news at all would do; good, bad, or otherwise.

This, however, was not merely an old man. He was In fact a wizard known by the name Albus Dumbledore.

He would've thought trace, activated upon the first occurrence of accidental magic, would allow the Ministry of Magic to track and pinpoint the child's location, then send aurors to at the very least confirm her location.

But, it failed somehow.

The Ministry cannot obtain any significant details save her continued life and residence in London; and they don't seem to be too pressed to take action.

Their evasion gave him a distinct impression of a single inept guard in front of an open doored holding cell. The image was as entertaining as it was unsettling.

She was the one to fulfill the prophecy after all. The twinkle in his baby blue eyes flickered slightly; he at the very least needed to know of her constant whereabouts lest he need her for whatever reason.

Perhaps a certain Slytherin can shed some light on the mystery that is the Potter girl, mayhaps even find her.

" _Speak of the devil_ " the elderly wizard mused as the door to his office opened, one Severus Snape entered silent as the night, He for once had forgone the tempting aspect of a lemon drop this once, the anticipation of the man now standing before him being the bearer of good news impairing his rational mind.

By the end of this encounter, the elder one would regret this lapse of reasoning, thus be reminded as to why he had the muggle treat -conveniently laced with calming draught brewed by none other than Hogwarts' resident potions master himself- readily available on his desk in the first place.

Dumbledore addressed the Slytherin head of house, "Good day to you, Severus," the eldest greeted with a renewed twinkle in his eye, "what news of young Miss Potter?"

" _Strait to the point_ ", the ebony eyed man mentally drawled, " _How peculiar…_ "

" _Must be worried about the Potter brat far too much to think rationally."_ Then again he _was_ a Gryffindor, it was to be expected. " _Perhaps the brat was simply enjoying the attentions of her awestruck admirers, being the attention seeking chit she is._ " At least, that is what Severus _wanted_ to believe. He has enough sense to know that is no longer, if at all, the case. The hard cold evidence is sitting innocuously in his right pocket, after all.

"On the wizarding side of things, nothing you don't already know of or have access to." The potions master drawled out, who noted with sadistic glee the pesky twinkle in the old man's eye dim considerably, but decided the barmy albeit wise old fool should know of what became of his little savior-in-training, "But the muggle side of things promise news and information that could potentially help us learn of the circumstances leading to her disappearance, and perhaps the girl herself."

"Hmm…" the elder nodded, "would you kindly go question her relatives, the Dursleys? Perhaps-" Snape cut him off.

"You ask the impossible of me, Headmaster."

Baffled, and rightfully worried, the one in question pressed on, "Please do elaborate, Severus."

"Her… _relatives…_ are in the custody of the muggle ministry." the younger wizard forced out the term, onyx eyes found a knot in the red wood flooring of the office suddenly quite interesting; it almost appeared to be in the shape of a key hole if he got creative… "They were arrested on the charges of child abuse, neglect, and apparently attempted murder of a minor; they cannot prove outright murder due to a lack of body but, according to reports at least, there was enough blood at the scene to pin attempted murder, however."

For the first time since _her_ Death, he was shocked into silence. Hesitantly, he spoke, "Please tell me it wasn't who I think it was… "

"If I told you otherwise, I would be lying. I have no other choice than to validate your fears."

The old wizard now regretted disregarding Minerva's warnings, for being so gullible to think that the face of an innocent child would deter the abuse shown to a child of magical decent when those he placed her with were so set in their ways…He'd mull on that strain of thought later however, as now is time for action to circumvent and mend the issue not regretting what he could not change.

"Any idea of her whereabouts? Her condition?" The wizened man wore a painfully repentant face. Severus almost pitied him…almost.

"A lead," the inky haired man nodded, turning his jaded onyx eyes to Dumbledore, "The rumored Melody of King's Cross hold merit according to one Lucius Malfoy, who had a close encounter with the child not even a day prior. He overheard her playing that night and saw how she came to be known as 'Melody' to the press of both worlds."

"The girl herself, he recalled having eyes of emerald green that glowed with protective wild magic; he recollects a brief flash of raven hair as well." The potions master relayed "Her black hood and the night obscured her more identifiable features, her face is a mystery."

As Albus Dumbledore processed the information, the spy pulled a set of neatly folded papers. Both papers read _Surrey Leader_ *(9)

"I obtained some relevant muggle papers; one from roughly a year and a half ago as it is safe to say she disappeared about that time, another more recent one…I personally find…bitterly amusing to say the least," a dark chuckle escaped the bat-like man's lips unhindered, a small frightening smile adorning his pale visage, "as well as enlightening in regards to the situation at hand."

All innuendo of humor, albeit dark as it was, promptly evaporated from his face like overheated water as he recalled the rather…heavily hinted at…gory detail described in the dailies now being reviewed by the wizened wizard before him.

Severus Snape grimaced at the images the posts left him with, having read them himself for validity. Despite his undying hatred for his childhood bully and archenemy one James Potter, he would never wish such a fate upon his worst enemy, let alone the now deceased man's offspring. She was merely an innocent child who happened to be a victim of circumstance.

The elder, upon completion of his analysis of the emphasized columns, looked about due for a stroke; he was silent as death as the consequences of his actions years ago sank in.

As heart-wrenching the dilemma was, the potions master found it anything but humorless, ironic really. She had yet to grace the halls with her presence, and was already making headlines. Oh the mayhem that will ensue, dear Merlin.

The elaborately robed man staggered, just barely making it to his desk chair before collapsing into a silent stupor.

" _The brat achieved the seemingly impossible, and left the Albus Dumbledore speechless. Twice. Within an hour no less…_ "

Onyx eyes spotted the weathered hand that blindly groped his desk for the dish of potion laced candies. Well, that explains the silent mental break down the elder was suffering.

Snape couldn't help the droll chuckle that escaped him, bet he is deeply regretting passing up the spiked treat now…He took this chance to retreat to his dungeon based lab to plan his next course of action now that his morbid curiosity was piqued.

Little did the former know the stunned man was thinking the same _exact_ thing…

* * *

 **-King's Cross Train Station: reveal of an old...young friend-**

A warm gentle embrace thawed Heather from her frozen shock, and soon returned the affection in kind.

Pulling back, Heather found herself staring at one Ashlen Fennec, her former music professor, in the eyes.

The petit young woman before her bore the appearance of a fifteen year old girl, in all but age, with an evenly proportioned Ukrainian face, and high Cherokee cheekbones; her pale English noble's complexion was practically unblemished save for a natural soft pink blush that dusted her cheeks that was darkened somewhat by the day's chill, and naturally full lips the color of cherry blossoms that looked right with her soft features.

Her wavy light golden blonde hair ending in lilac dyed stubborn curls frolicked teasingly in the cold winter breeze, and her unique fern green irises, further highlighted by midnight blue almost black half rings along the outer edges, danced with determined gleeful mischief.

Heather handed Ashlen a handwritten card reading, "Happy Birthday, Ashlen!" in red green and blue ink respectively in scrawling handwriting made just barely legible, only a small sketch of a red flowered, green stemmed heather in the corner identified who it was from.

The meeting of eyes initiated a silent but profound exchange that lasted mere seconds but felt like hours.

The ravenette's intense killing curse green eyes, bright with elation, were inquiring.

" _Enjoy?_ "

The blonde offered up a disarming lopsided smile, nodding affirmatively, and started to sway side to side –down, left, up; down, right, up; repeat– to a tune only she could hear. Wild fern eyes flickered to the shopping strip then back to the small ravenette, head tilted to the side, her gloved hand held out pleadingly.

Heather feigns pondering Ashlen's unspoken request, index finger at her chin, and moments later concedes wearing an equally lopsided grin replacing her usually vacant expression, nodding vehemently before grasping Ashlen's proffered hand.

* * *

"Food?" Ashlen propositioned after walking a distance from prying ears, to which Heather turned to her with intensely ravenous eyes clearly exclaiming, "Gimme!"

The blonde's chiming hyena-like laugh rang out in the frozen landscape, "to luncheon we go then!" she chippered *(10.1)

Intense green orbs appraise the blurry figure of her sister-like counterpart for any subtle changes in her appearance, yet remained unsurprised to see her looking as young and as lively as ever.

They easily fell into a companionable silence, and Heather took this chance to take in her surroundings. The ground was blanketed heavily with snow, the temperature sitting at a bitter -7 degrees Celsius (19.4 degrees Fahrenheit), and the atmosphere was wetter than usual*(11)

Heather let her mind wander; it was on a day like this –only more mild– a year and three months ago she reunited with Ashlen;

* * *

 **-Approximately a year and three months ago-**

 _At first, Heather felt it safe to say she caught a case of the common cold, but it became quickly apparent that is was only the beginning of something more deadly; Pneumonia._

 _The ravenette let loose a particularly nasty sounding cough, catching the attention of a young woman passing by._

 _Lethargic and delirious from high fever, the girl closed her glassy evergreen-hued eyes._

 _She didn't wake for three whole days, and it took another four days to come to full awareness._

 _On the eighth day, Heather came to still feeling sluggish and loads better, yet far from travel ready._

 _Finding herself waking in an unknown house in an unknown location, she did the sensible thing when one felt anything but well…_

 _…And slid off of the very comfortable bed, only to be hit with a dizzy spell that caused her legs to give out beneath her and make intimate contact with the floor._

 _Leaning against the bed, she sat breathing with more difficulty than expected in attempt to calm her protesting stomach._

 _Moments later, a familiar young woman walked in silently with a bowl of steaming chicken broth in her hands. She seemed vaguely surprised to see Heather awake and lucid._

 _Mutely, the blonde hurriedly –as much as much as she dared with piping hot food that is– placed the bowl on the night stand, easily lifting the ailing girl's weight in such a way that it did not upset her stomach any more._

 _Wait…was that-_

 _The girl looking woman handed Heather a black cased instrument. A sense of deja vu overcame Heather's fear; the golden plaque read in ever elegant vine-like script, "Heather"._

 _It was the music professor from her old primary school, Ms…_

 _"Fennec, Ashlen Fennec._ _*(10.2)" A soft dreamy voice filled in the metaphorical blank. The shock must have shown on her face as the named Ashlen laughed liltingly, "I may be bad with names…" she looked at Melody's case, "…Heather, but I don't forget a face. Let alone one of Melody's choosing." The bedridden girl nodded, accepting the explanation…for now._

 _Noting the brunette's weariness of her current situation, the fair haired woman…girl intoned, "I understand your confusion and panic; once upon a time I found myself in your position." Ashlen's airy voice soothed her frayed nerves like a desperately needed breeze on a blisteringly hot summer's day_

 _"Here," Ashlen said as she placed an auburn leather bound journal on her covered lap. It had a detailed image of a tree on the front, and was domed in by Celtic knots and what appeared to be raven's feathers, it was held closed by a spring loaded latch lock and about an inch and a half thick filled with what appeared to be parchment._ _*(12)_

 _"Use this to write any and questions you may have for me; I will answer all of them as honestly and as detailed as I can." The young woman said as she handed Heather a green ink pen she seemingly conjured up._

 _And so, throughout the whole recovery period, Heather found a constant companion in Ashlen; who all but glued herself the sick girl's side. As promised, the wild eyed girl-woman all of Heather's questions with an honesty that bordered on brutal, and silently encouraging her to ask more. Her self-appointed care giver –Heather could safely call Ashlen a friend– ensured she well and healthy, going as far as to eat with her so she has no reason to feel alone._

 _By the time she fully recovered two months later (the second month having been strictly observation), the jaded girl knew tender care and unconditional; Heather was left with a happiness and lightness of spirit she had never had experienced before, all branching from the enigma that was Ashlen Fennec._

 **(Memory end)**

* * *

The sporadic blonde apparently thought atmosphere too quiet and started humming, with the accompanying dance of course, an off-beat tune that made Heather break into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.*(12)

This being the scene they made upon entering the local café, garnering more than a few amused looks, some even joining in on the contagious laughter, the hysterical girls looking nothing less than a pair of sisters enjoying the day out.

Nothing suspicious about a young blonde woman, looking nothing more than a girl, and a raven haired child, whose true age and name remains unknown…

Not one person, save for one man sitting in the back most corner, thought nothing of it…

(Chapter end)

* * *

A/N: Hmm…what could a _muggle_ of all things read that nearly gives poor Dumbles cardiac arrest, closely followed by a stoke moments later. So who'd you think the blond in the crowd was? Better yet, who caught that detail in the last chapter at all?

Yes, as stated in the warning, my OC Ashlen Fennec is my shameless montage (Gamefreak, creator of Pokémon, did it why not me…?) In fact, I am reminded of Luna when I hear people describe me, just more gryffindorish…or gryffindorkish (however you prefer it, my darling readers.)

As stated before, this is based off my mom's firsthand experience (I hope I made it seem realistic enough, because she certainly thinks it does having been the one to live it.) and while I am no medical expert, I learned that Pneumonia is only _ONE_ of the number of many adverse effects of being malnourished; the factors in Heather's case are as follows: lack of warm clothing (it was winter), obviously the winter time weather, and weakened immune system (due to malnourishment.)

Better yet, what role will Ashlen play in Heather's life? And who is she really…what is she?

Opposing or adjacent zodiacs get on better than ones distant from one's own. Heather is a Leo, Ashlen is an Aquarius.

*(1) **DoB's:**

DLM: June 5th, 1980 (age 6)

HJP: July 31st, 1980 (age 6)

It is January 20th, 1987 (in story that is)…you do the math if you suspect error, cause I already did.

*(2) I couldn't help it, and I am unrepentant (pug + ugly = pugly)

*(3) **Plonker** itself has a few meanings, including "something large and substantial of its kind", "penis" and "a foolish, inept, or contemptible person"1. The first use of plonker to mean "a foolish, inept, or contemptible person" is attested in the OED to be an episode of Only Fools and Horses (in 1981)1.

*(4) 1 galleon = approximately 17 pounds = $25 USD, so 5 galleons = approximately 85 pounds = $125 USD. So for someone on Heather's economical standing, she just became the best well off street dwelling musician (that and she made less or about equal to that in a single day when she played).

*(5) Hydragyrum (high-drah-gare-ruhm) - hence the elemental symbol of Hg; hydr (from the Greek prefix hydor) "water", and argyros "silver"; Mercury (Hg); Hydragyrus (latin); quicksilver; "liquid silver"

*(6) That was me, still is too XD.

*(7) **Bint** -n woman, in the loosest sense of the word. One step short of a prostitute, a bint is a bird with less class, less selectivity, more makeup and even more skin. Blokes don't talk to bints unless they've had at least eight pints of beer, which is why bints turn up in free-for-students nightclubs at 2:45 a.m. with their faked student ID and dance around their Moschino rucksacks. The word derives from the Arabic for "woman." Well, I say "derives from" – it is the Arabic for "woman."

*(8) In reference to what Heather lost so long ago; something Draco still has. (one way Heather and Draco are complete opposites.)

*(9) _Surrey Leader_ is a real published paper (yes, I researched this. I wanted to be as factually correct as humanly possible.)

*(10.1) Guess the movie reference, get a virtual cookie.

*(10.2) the same thing, guess right, get a virtual cookie…

For more info: astrobix friendship/ friendcompat/ aquarius/ leo (remove spaces)

*(11) London, January 7th-20th 1987

*(12) I actually have this journal, here's a link to the image of it (front and back) on my deviant art account:

boohboohhgirl. / art/Journal- The-Tree- of-Life- 671687237()

*(13) Riki the legendary Hero from Xenoblade Chronicles (a must listen, play and discover why ;)):

Link (remove spaces): www. Youtube watch?v= JVVenz3L5_g


	4. The Calm Before The Storm

Disclaimer: I do not own the HP franchise...nuff said, only the enigmatic OC Ashlen Fennec (aka me as myself)

" _meep_ " – note (Heather mostly)

" _meep_ " – thoughts (same as above)/ Newspaper (this chapter and all others that apply)

"meep" – everyone else (not Heather, not for a loooong time.)

* * *

Chapter 3- Calm Before the Storm...

Nothing much was exchanged conversationally as Heather devoured her food as if it would escape somehow, and Ashlen merely watched in sympathy. She knew, despite the two and a half week duration, what it was like being to go hungry; how her mentor put up with that and more…gruesome things, for lack of a better and tamer term, for _10 years_ she'd never understand, never truly. Nor would she want to as understanding often is borne through experience…

And so Ashlen, in her mind, understood enough to know what not to do or say to someone with such a background, and what they don't want from you as a person they trust.

Ashlen returned to herself just as the small girl finished massacring her meal, and with a jolt she remembered something as she saw a russet haired man with a newspaper in a dark corner, "When we get to my flat, after we eat dinner, I have something for you," Ashlen said lowly as she stood to leave, the action prompting the six year old to follow suit, "news of what became of _Them_." She finished with a smirk on her face and a wicked sadistic glean in her blue-ringed fern eyes.

" _I'm interested…_ " the ravenette's gaze relayed, a crazed gleam within those emerald depths.

The fair girl-woman winked discreetly, "Remember when I said 'My karma ran over your dogma'? Well the car struck the dog…" pregnant pause, "…Hard." That smirk turned feral in a split second.

Heather's serene face fell, and let show the half crazed state of mind that lie beneath.

To resuscitate the girl, Ashlen chimed in with her angelic voice, "Off to the shopping strip we go then?"

Heather, rendered memoryless from her lase of sanity, nodded eagerly as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

However, one lone figure under a glamor felt a shiver go down his spine at the disturbing sight he had just bore witness to.

* * *

Glamored mahogany eyes would never be able to forget the scene that played before him; the look of pain borne insanity set on the face of a six, nearly seven, year old child's face; But not just any child…

It was without a doubt Heather Jaclyn Potter; she was a perfect mix of both of her parents. Right before his eyes, any bigotry he might have at one point bombarded upon her was, for a lack of better descriptive term, _obliviated_ from his mind.

Now he could only wonder how he'd be able to do such a thing to an already broken and disillusioned child with this alluded knowledge of her past.

" _Ignorance is truly bliss,_ " and the image branded into his memory let him know just how true that statement rang, causing a shiver to run down his spine yet again,

"Now, if only I was ignorant…" He mentally cursed the universal law if hindsight. Masked mahogany eyes followed the sister-like pair out the door into the expanse of seemingly endless field of pure white.*(1)

* * *

Hours later, they arrived at Ashlen's deceivingly simple and small flat, which was anything but on the inside, dog tired but satisfied after a long day of shopping.

After stating her intentions for the day, to make a dent in her inheritance money, Heather fought the losing battle of convincing the determined woman otherwise.

In the end, however, she conceded to Ashlen's request due to three factors; One, it was her birthday and one dos not simply argue against the birthday recipient; two, the will shattering look in her wild eyes paired with her indomitable will, no more need be said; three, well…she needed new clothing anyways, so who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Not that the latter points matter one mite if the former condition is met; which, of course, it is.

So naturally, both of them stumble through the front door bogged down by dozens of shopping bags each arm, their cheeks and lips chapped and red from the cold.

"I'm gonna run these to my room and then start dinner-" the woman's breathless declaration was cut off by a halting hand. Heather shook her head disapprovingly, pointing at herself, then at the kitchen. Emerald eyes challenged Ashlen to go against _her_ declaration, the former only nodded mutely at the reasonable request.

Both then left to their respective sizable rooms to clean up. Heather at this point opted to take that desperately needed shower. She could attest to the difficulty of the simple act of cleaning oneself whilst being hunted down by child services that threaten to drag you off to the local orphanage, aka hell; fire and brimstone pretty much included.*(2)

Worst two weeks since her escape. It was comparable, although not quite as bad, to the pre-beating days of her former life, and _that_ was bad enough as is.

It was fifteen minutes later that found Ashlen lying in a sprawled and gaping heap on her couch while Heather, wearing a newly bought pair of music themed pajamas and a white gold charm bracelet (that said blonde was adamant about getting her) with a raven and a fox clipped to it, stood in front of her with a notepad and a pen, ready and awaiting the newly turned 19 year old's order.

Ashlen knew she wasn't getting out of this, so she opted to play along.

"I'll take a Café Mocha with three even teaspoons of suger, please." The "waitress" wrote down her order, and then danced off to the kitchen (that the young woman learned the hard way she was forbidden to go anywhere _near_ tonight.) to happily oblige the request.

Mere minutes later, Heather returned with a pleasantly warm, but not steaming, mug of said beverage along with a hot cocoa for herself. Ashlen hummed in approval when she took a sip of her coffee, "Perfect." They shared a smile.

A note in loopy scrawled handwriting slid into her peripheral vision, " _What would you like to eat? It's your call b-day girl ;)_ "

"Something simple, really, but my favorite…" the ravenette was poised to write, "Soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, the soup is your choice." Raven hair flashed crimson for a brief second as the girl nodded, then went on her merry way to the kitchen with a content, if not happy, light in her killing curse green orbs.

15 minutes later found the pair enjoying the prepared meal with vigor.

"Earlier, I told you I had news for you in regards to _Them_." The unique eyes that once held impish mischief in their depths turned cold and serious, her voice equally chilly and monotone laced with an undertone of justified hatred. That was all the Aquarius born said before tossing the papers to Heather as she sat down from washing the dishes.

Heather snatched them up greedily as if they'd run away. She started with the oldest one, dating back from roughly a year and half ago;

* * *

 ** _Murdered or Missing: Young Girl Confirmed Missing by Minor August 17, 1985._**

 ** _By: Louis McClanton_**

 _A young boy, aged 5 years, phoned local law enforcement on August 10th, 1985 at approximately midnight to report the fatal beating of a confirmed to-be-missing 5 year old girl with dark hair and green eyes, her name he refuses to divulge to the press, "For her protection." He claims._

 _He also tells of the domestic abuse and neglect (on both children's accounts) by married couple Vernon and Petunia Dursley on a daily basis. He (whose name is not disclosed due to status as a minor) has this to say when questioned about home life, and how events escalated as quickly as they did._

 _"It started when we were three. Then, like, when school started, they went bonkers. She brought home a pretty violin and her name was carved into a gold rectangle on the case. They tried to take it from her repeatedly under the idea that she 'Stole' it; but in the end she always found a way to get it back."_

 _Then this reporter sees a heart wrenching look cross his face; "Then that night…he got drunk. And he was a violent drunk. He saw her trying to open the front door…you know what happened next…"_

 _Then one asks next if she has made contact with and if he thought she was out there somewhere alive._

 _"No, I haven't heard from her since the night she and me escaped* together. Last I saw her she was running like hell was at her heels; running from the hell she lived for years. But I do think she's alive...at least I hope."_

 _After this enlightening admission, this one deems that the ministry has a case on their hands. In fact, neighbors readily correlate the story; one Mrs. Figg tells of a failed rescue mission;_

 _"Suffice to say, it ended badly for the poor child." The woman, even after much coaxing, elaborated no further on the matter, "Please, it hurts too much to recollect."_

 _On a somber note, this concludes today's report._

* * *

Heather raised a brow, " _It took a week for them to realize I was missing?_ " she scoffed, " _If not for my mystery savior, I'd be lying dead in a morgue right now._ " Annoyance aside, she was touched by Dudley's genuinely spoken words and actions; from him not mentioning her name, to showing care he could never show with her abusers breathing down their necks.

Heather got the distinct impression she should be feeling something profound right about now…except she didn't. It was, a strange feeling say the least, something akin to the process of sublimation…*(3).

The strange numbness aside, Heather opted to move onto more entertaining aspects as she positioned to read the other more recent paper:

* * *

 ** _Ongoing Investigation Unearths Sufficient Evidence to Commence Trial Proceedings._**

 ** _January 10th, 1987 By: Wolf D. Bane_**

 _Startling evidence rattles seasoned investigators as details of child abuse case come to light. Both evidence procured from the crime scene and eye-witness accounts bring validity to prior accusations against defendants from approximately 3 years ago._

 _This claim was further cemented by the boy witness, who at the end of a recent child custody case, violently objected to the aspect of his legal guardianship being granted to his paternal aunt, Majorie Dursley, reciting the following words like a mantra:_

 _"She's one of them!"_

 _Due to the aforementioned recent events, the criminal trial for the accused Mr. Vernon Dursley, and accomplice, Mrs. Petunia Dursley, will be officially held on Febuary 3rd of this year._

* * *

Heather felt a lightness settle in her chest at the genuine actions that played in her favor, but then it felt as if she swallowed a bowling ball at the notion that her cousin was in a very similar, if not the same, scenario she has lived all her life and the danger he now faces; he is now in the crosshairs of those who will seek reparation for being "wronged."

He saved her life that night a mere year and a half ago. He hopes she is alive and well, maybe even wondering if his hope is all but moot.

Perhaps, Heather muses as she scribbles furiously on a piece of paper, that she repays her debts and abates her brave cousin's fears and confirms his hopes.

Heather slid the paper to Ashlen, who immediately took to reading the scrawled words.

Judging by the gleam in those wild eyes, the ravenette had her answer.

* * *

As Heather was making her way to her sanctuary, she got the feeling she was being followed; as well as the piercing gazes that watched her every move. An air splitting crack sounded from behind her then a familiar voice she heard not even ten minutes ago call to her.

"Heat-Raven! W-wait up!"

Ashlen stumbled to a halt in front of Heather as she tuned to the voice's owner. Breathlessly, Ashlen stuttered out, "Y-you forgot this…" as she held out a _very_ familiar bag.

Ah, well, that was important indeed.

The heart sisters stared at each other as an awkward silence passed between them. Heather could've sworn she heard a cricket chirping…

The enigmatic girl-woman broke it, "Welp, my jobs done. Chao!" she imparted a cheerful wave before running off the way she came as the strange popping echoed into the still night once again, followed by two faint cracks a fair distance away from the guards' station.

Killing curse green eyes that in this moment glowed like a wolf's in the dark night, scanned the desolate street. Upon discovering nothing out of the ordinary, save for a passing scrawny black stray cat*(4), she passed off the odd noises as innocuous street walkers loving their whips _far_ too much.

if the half-blind girl was able byond 6 inches in front of her, she would've noticed the shadowy outlines of two tall figures peeking out from behind the guards' station…

* * *

A/N: I give my congratulations to those who caught the less than innocent innuendo I threw in there and I sincerely hope you enjoy it as mush I find the aspect entertaining (I would think Heather learned some _very_ unsavory…things from her time around her equally unsavory maternal uncle), if you don't grats to you as well. I know this was a short chapter and I'm sorry for taking so long to update, I've had a busy work schedule and I'm getting used to it since the recent change of management.

Anywho, what did our dearest Heather write on that paper? Who were Heather's night stalkers? Comment on the following if you so wish with suggestions or ideas…or just for the he double tooth picks of it to boost my morale…*Gives her infamous "I'm innocent and can do no harm" look*

*(1) - Symbolic of a conscience cleared of bigotry.

*(2) - of the orphanages in the world, I only _hear_ that Britain is one of if not the worst when it comes to this particular institute. Not that I know anything about it.

* - to the grammar Nazis; the grammar here is incorrect, yes, but I meant it to be this way. Any other grammar issues save this one are up for nitpicking (unless I pull a GN on myself before you do...which i probably will, knowing myself...)

*(3) – sublimation (from one physical state to another): from solid (like an ice cube) strait to gas form (evaporation) – yes, I've felt this before, and this is the best, most poetic way to describe it besides being cut with an extremely sharp knife and not feeling it until later when it's healing. I felt this enough times to remember, sadly.

*(4) – black cats have carry an omen of bad luck when sighted passing by…poo is gonna hit the fan next chapter…dear Merlin, what is going to happen to our beloved heroine _now_? - this superstition started in the middle ages of Europe when they were thought to be witches prowling the streets in cat form. this is the gist i'm going for here


End file.
